


Pompeii

by doctorweber



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Character Death, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 04:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14663438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorweber/pseuds/doctorweber
Summary: Finn goes to the Emprise du Lion and finds a Tevinter bathhouse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Rat Jelly. We've got joint-custody of Finn.

“Act for Act! Wound for wound! Never exult in Hades, swordsman; here you are repaid. By the sword you did your work and by the sword you die.” — written by Aeschylus, in Agamemnon, spoken by Clytemnestra

Chapter One

Finn raised his sword to the shemlen madman, level with the man’s stammering neck. The fool had led him to a trap, and he would be repaid with vengeance and blood, as was fit. Michel de Chevin, a clever coward, raised his sword in turn, swinging wildly. He never raised his sword again. The rare blood melted into the snow like the spilled bottle of wine on the tavern floor last night. The death was quick and messy and Michel de Chevin died like most men died.

The ice of the Emprise stung and burned, and Finn knew he should have worn boots to the infernal place. The terrified inhabitants of the Emprise du Lion, not used to the burning cold for so long into the year, huddled in their villas, peeking out windows to gaze at the merry band of Inquisition warriors, passing through, always passing through. The two years of constant fighting had begun to take a toll on Finn’s body, in good ways and bad. His shoulders had broadened, arms wiry and strong. He had no need to use his bow for hunting, and he let his bow arm fall into foolish disuse, as his swordsmanship grew stronger yet. Finn’s feet remained clumsy as ever, and his gait had not straightened, and likely never would. It was a great sin, as a swordsman, to be pigeon toed. The clouds lifted and the sun dazzled the ice.

Blackwall knew of an inn down the road about a league, and the four men tramped over the snowed in roads and fields to a middling sized farmhouse with a tavern attached. The stables jutted out into the forested backlot, and the lonely barn on the back of the property had caved a few years ago, the owners not bothering to repair the damage. The rashvine reclaimed what was left of the garden, and trees grew willingly throughout the property, left unchecked. The walk through the tavern was humiliating enough, people staring wide-eyed at the strangers. Not a lot of love for strangers in these parts. Not after the silverite mines.

Suledin Keep was under the sway of the demon lord, and would remain that way until they decided to liberate it. However, they needed a night’s rest to plan their attack on the fortress. Dorian and Varric offered to scrounge up food from the unwilling barkeep, and Blackwall and Finn made their way up the rickety stairs to inspect their circumstances of lodging. The rooms were nice enough, with hard beds and soft floors, the wood planks dipping and melting in places, but Finn noticed the fresh cut flowers on the chest of drawers and the fresh water in the pitcher. 

“Nice place,” he said, offhand, running his fingers with the grain of the table wood. Fragrant pine. Blackwall grunted his agreement, and started removing his vambraces for dinner. “It’s nicer in the summer, but yeah,” Blackwall said, rubbing his neck. Such a nervous man, although Finn was not quite sure why. He didn’t mind the lies. All of his companions lied. Blackwall was just very bad at it. Still, the man had a steady shield and a whittling knife. Finn supposed that he wasn’t too bad. Certainly not as standoffish as Dorian, nor as talkative as Varric. “Inquisitor? Your companions are awaiting you downstairs, for dinner, your excellency.” A voice came from the doorway, hesitant and reverent. Finn motioned to Blackwall, a clear dismissal, and the warden made his way down the stairs. Finn needed a moment. 

Michel de Chevin’s death had been a mess, but it was a long time coming. De Chevin was a prideful, haughty man, who in seeing the helpless, would help as many as could benefit him and him alone. Finn did not care for that. But he would have to come up with some other offense, if he wanted his advisors to back him on the rash decision. Cutting down a man for insubordination was one thing. Cutting a man down for personal reasons was quite another. Finn thought back to the blood and death, and he sat on the bed, arousal growing. His cock hardened at the remembrance of the death gasp, the last breath of air his enemy would ever take. His face burnt with the shame of it, but he stroked his member through his breeches and remembered the cramping grip on his sword as he brought the blade down onto the man. He felt like lead in his tight, cramped breeches. Undoing his laces, and remembering sweat and blood, his shaky hands sought out his shaft. Cock head purple from the onslaught of memory, he swirled his thumb around and spit on himself, wetting his hand. 

It was perniciously evil. He moaned as his other hand, seemingly of its own volition, grabbed his stones. He had nothing to ease his cock into the practice of it, and he looked around for anything he could use, beside his own spittle. But he kept stroking. The pressure grew, and his feet curled with the effort of holding himself off from it. An image of Dorian flashed in his mind, of Dorian down on his knees, sucking and licking. Unexpected, but not unwelcoming. A knock sounded on the door and he froze like a deer, wide-eyed and fast-hearted. “Finn, you coming?” Varric asked and Finn laughed. “Not yet, I’ll be down in a second. I’m weary, friend,” he said, out of breath and disoriented. He kept stroking, slowly and surely, even as he spoke, not wanting to quit his pleasure. 

“Sure thing, buddy,” Varric said, and he heard the footfalls recede. He picked up his pace, spitting again when his cock chafed against his hand. Balls gripped violently in his fist, almost too hard, he shook with his oncoming orgasm, and he bit his lip roughly to keep from calling out. There were people to all sides of him, downstairs and up, in every room. He had not been truly alone since the shemlen had made him their herald. Eyesight going black, he held his breath, prolonging his torture and his hand bobbed up and down jerkily, all control lost. Everything was in service of his pleasure. He needed it. Even quiet release was better than the days he was surrounded in campground after campground, unable to service himself. The Dalish were much more sympathetic about sex than these people. He thought of his first fuck, a boy, older than himself, Da’ven, who had taken him to a waterfall and bent him over a rock. He had quite liked the way the stone scraped his cock bloody.

He came, gasping and shaking, calling out a hard Dalish curse. He sat for a moment, breeches around his ankles, and let his back hit the hard mattress. Cum on his stomach, he tentatively got up and found a washrag, dabbing himself and muttering. He was very late to dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

“Beware the flatterers of the world, for what is music to the ears may be poison to the soul.” --Henry H. Neff

Finn slashed and hacked his way through Suledin Keep, bloody and bruised. The team shifted, and Blackwall took point for the next hour. Dorian to the side of him, and Varric bringing up the rear with a hail of arrows. Finn did not know if he’d ever get used to that crossbow of Varric’s, the one with the woman’s name. Varric wouldn’t let anyone else hold it, but it looked like it weighed as much as a baby druffalo. The red templars screeched and screamed, but they died just like anything else. If it bled, Finn could kill it. He looked to his side, to Dorian, and smiled. 

The man was beginning to grow on him. At first, he was distrustful of the smooth-talking, handsome Tevinter, who looked at him with such intense eyes. But after falling into the future with each other, they were blood brothers, and Dorian would follow him to the gates of the black city. Then again, Finn didn’t suppose that was a difficult concept for a Tevinter mage. After seeing Dorian in his masturbatory fantasy, he had turned to introspection on their relationship. Or the lack of it, rather. Finn was quiet and kept to himself, Dorian was anything but. The life of the party, Dorian could charm anyone, slipping into conversation as easily as a trout into the water. Still, Finn did not miss Dorian’s fervent glances toward him and his flushed face at the tavern last night. The four men bonded over Varric’s game of diamondback, playing and drinking well into the morning. 

The whipcrack of the trap sounded like the snapping of tree sap on cold winter’s day, and Finn did not realize the danger in time. Dorian did, pushing Finn out of the way. The arrow protruded from his chest at an odd angle, and Dorian looked down at it in amazement, dropping to his knees, trying to pull it out in his panic. “Don’t touch it,” Finn said, dropping his sword onto the flagstones. He never dropped his sword. Dorian pulled at it still, mumbling to himself in Tevene, a rather severe language in Finn’s opinion. Varric fumbled for a health potion and Finn flicked out his hunting knife, ready to cut the fletching off the arrow to pull the damned thing out. 

“What are you doing?” Dorian said, twenty years younger in the moment and infinitely scared. Varric poured half the potion forcibly down the man’s throat and Finn rocked back on his heels, waiting for the potion to take effect. If he pulled the arrow out too soon, Dorian could still bleed out. But the healing potion took effect so slowly, Finn grew anxious, and Blackwall put his hand on Finn’s shoulder to steady him. Sure enough, they could see the potion healing and knitting the skin. Finn took his hunting knife and instructed Blackwall to hold Dorian by the shoulders. By that time, he had fainted away from the pain of the arrow wound and Finn breathed easily. The arrow did not hurt coming out as it did going in. 

“I’ll stay here with Sparkles, you two finish this,” Varric said, eyes tight and sad, dumping the rest of the healing potion into Dorian’s mouth, tilting his unconscious head back. Finn and Blackwall looked at each other, nodded, and got up. They hacked and slashed their way through the rest of the camp, a whirlwind of blood and steel. Blackwall never wavered, and Finn never relented. The templars, now mindless creatures, bayed at them, barking and screaming with their dead voices. But they bled and died, all the same. Finn took his worry and aggression out on the beasts, and prayed to Andruil that the trap’s arrow had not hit a dangerous mark. He would not lose Dorian as soon as he found him. He could not. They went up the steps into the 

The demon sat in the hall, as haughty and demanding as Michel de Chevin had been. But that man was dead. “Hello, and welcome, friends. Make yourselves comfortable.” They stood in the foyer of the main keep hall. Every inch was a debauchery. The desire demon who called himself Imshael sat on a throne made of live, naked women. A man sat on his knees, before the throne, fellating the demon lord. A woman, tears in her eyes, held a platter of human skulls, full of wine and blood. The demon beckoned them close, raising himself up, naked from the waist down, toga aflutter, as he strode off the dias. He strutted toward Finn, hoping to make a pact. “I must say, I am a little miffed that you killed those templars. Ah well, no harm no foul. But what can help you gentlemen with?”

“I do not speak with demons. I do not agree with demons. I do not negotiate with demons. By blood and by force I cast you out of this place!” Finn said, and the demon sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “If that’s the way you want to be about it, fine.” The beast grew to massive proportions, forming himself out of the very darkness of the Keep. But Finn had fought gods, and this thing was nothing new to him. The fight was long and brutal, but in the end, Finn conquered as he always did. The demon turned to ash upon the floor. Finn smiled, for his work was done that day.

Suledin Keep passed into his name, and Varric had a healer from the town brought to Dorian. They made their camp inside the walls of the fortress, as Dorian rested and grew stronger. After a week’s time, the group grew anxious, biting at the bit to leave the dark stone castle. Judicael’s Crossing, the famous bridge, rose eight hundred feet over the canyon floor. The dizzying height caught Finn’s breath as Varric dared him to spit over the edge of it. They made their way to the other side of the canyon, where the villagers claimed dragons were running rampant. Finn was very doubtful of that, but he agreed to survey the area, nonetheless. 

They made their way to the circular buildings that Dorian called “amphitheatres,” archways encircling the entire stories. The amphitheatres reminded Finn of dog collars. The buildings were massive, and hollow, and full of dragons. The villagers had been right for once in their pathetic lives. But even dragons died.


	3. Chapter 3

“Leave all your love and your longing behind, you can’t carry it with you if you want to survive.” --Dog Days Are Over, Florence Welch

In the end of it, Blackwall was the one who found the Tevinter-style bathhouse, hidden back behind the Circle of Judicael. The bathhouse broke off into private rooms and halls, each with a pool, heated from the natural spring under the ground. The Tevinter pipes were quite ingenious and Finn wished that Skyhold had something as grand as The glass mosaics glinted in the moonlight, as bright and sharp as the day they were laid in the plaster. Finn stared at the kaleidoscope of shapes, reminding him of the steady pattern of constellations in the night sky. The steam of the room choked him and he sat on the white plaster bench, towel in hand, muscles shaking from the day’s fights. 

Dragon deaths were always grief-stricken, at least for Finn, though he was raised as a believer in Andruil, the serpent hunter. The great beasts gave a human-like scream when their end was near, and his heart wept for the fierce, fiery creatures he slew. They would sleep in uthenera, as all magical beasts, and one day rise again. They were Mythal’s creatures, after all. 

He jumped at the sound of a nightingale, announcing the arrival of the night. The tangerine glow of twilight twisted through the skylight. His hand twisted the towel into a knot, and he fretted, standing up and walking to the corner of the room. His path was clear, and the only thing standing in his way was himself. But let it be said Finn Lavellan was not a coward. Though his hands trembled. He wrapped himself in his towel for propriety and walked into the chamber Dorian claimed, announcing his entrance, and Dorian greeted him at the door.

“Come to gloat? That Hivernal never knew what hit her,” Dorian said, wine chalice in hand. A bowl of grapes had magically appeared, although the group brought no food with them that day. A cask of olive oil and a loaf of bread sat upon the marble table next to the benches. Finn stared in shameless wonder at Dorian’s form. Every muscle and tendon was apparent, not an ounce of fat. Now a puckered, terrible pink scar marring the perfect, chestnut brown of his skin. It made him look a great deal more roguish, if that was possible.

“I’ve come to thank you for my life,” Finn said, seizing the moment, raising his chin. Dorian outright laughed at him, retying the toga on his shoulder. “Oh, well, you know how it is. You’re the important one. Anyway,” Dorian said, gesturing vaguely with his hand. A moment of silence lapsed. Finn stood his ground. “No, I’m not,” Finn said. The tension was thicker than a slab of butter on a skillet. “You know the stone is travertine? It’s incredibly popular in Minrathous, but I never expected to see it here. It holds up fabulously over the years,” Dorian said, pointing it out. Finn stared at him, but sat as Dorian talked. Wine was offered and accepted. Finn didn’t care for drink, but Dorian liked it, so he drank. 

He grew insatiable, and the thoughts from the days previous swirled in his mind, coming to the forefront right behind his temple. The man was willing to give his life for him. He craved Dorian, he needed him, and he wanted him. Dorian talked with his hands, like most Tevinters, but it endeared him to Finn. They spoke of their homelands, of Wycome and Qarinus, of rolling hills and port cities. Dorian spoke of Minrathous just as fondly as his home city of Qarinus, but also of the darkness in the city, the malignant underbelly he sought to destroy. “It’s not what Minrathous could be, and it kills me, Finn,” Dorian said, looking past Finn and into another world. 

The lascivious desire ripped through his body, and he stood, coming over to the bench where Dorian sprawled. He knelt down in front of him. “Kiss me, please, I beg of you,” Finn said. This startled Dorian, and he dropped the bowl of grapes. They watched it as it clattered to the floor, bronze ringing as clear as a bell. The noise prompted them to action. They kissed hungrily as Finn maneuvered himself onto the bench, towel falling away in the madness.

The wine and table grapes sweetened the kiss, and the demand for closeness grew, until they were clutching and grasping each other. The kiss turned erotically urgent as Dorian ripped the toga off his shoulder. “The oil,” Dorian said, pleading as he broke away. Finn tore himself away from the embrace, walking to the table with shaky legs. Arousal was evident between Finn’s legs, and for a moment, a blush of embarrassment crept onto his face. He was being very forward. He turned back to Dorian, only to see the man stroking himself, staring at him with a bashful grin. “Let me be your delicatus,” Dorian said, and for a moment, Finn did not understand. Until Dorian turned around, sticking his ass toward him, like a beast in heat. Finn’s yearning grew, until it could no longer be contained, and he walked forward with heavy steps. 

Finn slicked the olive oil over Dorian’s ass, and drew a whimper from his lips as he ran his thumb down into his anus. Searching and yearning, never stopping his onslaught, his hands explored his lover, as Dorian’s grip tightened on the bench. Finn could only imagine Dorian’s knees would get scraped from the unkind plaster. He went to his knees as well, not to be outdone. The shameless display of Dorian’s ass in the air hardened Finn’s cock to the bursting point and his stiff erection ached for the release only intercourse could give him. 

“Thank you for my life,” he said to Dorian, kissing and sucking his cock from the back. A wordless moan greeted him, and he continued to caress and massage. Dorian would not stay still, and as a light bit of punishment, Finn inserted two fingers into him. The moan grew to a loud whine, and it was music to his ears. Dorian begged and pleaded in his mother tongue, but Finn did not need to know what he was saying. “Please, please, please, don’t stop, please,” Dorian begged, and to be contrary, Finn pulled away. He sucked and nibbled Dorian’s taut stones, as the man shook and quivered, pulling at the ground like an unbroken stallion. He brought Dorian to the tipping point, but almost as he came, Finn separated the two of them. “Fuck me, oh sweet Maker, fuck me hard,” Dorian babbled, arching his back further, and Finn acquiesced. 

He went slowly at first, filling Dorian’s ass to the limit, sliding in inch by inch. Grinding into the tight hole, he savored each second of their quick, rutting love-making. It had certainly come on quickly, but he would take what he could. But he was a man, and could only take so much, and it felt so good. He grabbed Dorian’s hips, snapping forward with the purpose of making himself come. And he did not stop his assault until he came. He removed himself and looked at his lover, cum splayed on Dorian’s stomach as a testament to their passion. “Will you stay and talk?” Dorian asked. Finn bit into the bread and took a long draught of wine, mulling over his answer. “No, I don’t think I will,” he said, and walked out of the room, still filthy and sweat-beaded. The mosaics winked and glittered at him as he passed quietly into the night.


End file.
